


Missing Half

by elrosia



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-15
Updated: 2017-05-17
Packaged: 2018-10-19 07:01:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10634706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elrosia/pseuds/elrosia
Summary: A glimpse into the life of George Weasley as he struggles with the loss of his twin brother.





	1. Numb

**Author's Note:**

> I can’t imagine how George could go on without his twin, and I feel like the books kind of glossed over his loss. So I wanted to give him a little attention. Sorry if it’s a little angsty. All feedback appreciated! Will probably be adding more chapters.  
> Disclaimer: All characters owned by JK Rowling

* * *

 

George Weasley sat on his bed in the room he once shared with his twin brother, Fred.  He looked over to the empty bed across from him, the blankets still rumpled as they’d been carelessly strewn aside the last time Fred had slept there. He felt a hollowness in his chest, an emptiness somehow so heavy he was pulled down with its weight. An intense pressure had built up behind his eyes from which the tears still would not fall.

 

 

George’s mind wandered back to the funeral that had taken place a few weeks ago. It had been a dismal affair. The morning had dawned with a soft blue, cloudless sky, the warm spring air and bright sunshine jarring unnaturally with his somber mood. In his mind all was winter—full of sleet, snow, driving rains, icy winds, and piercing cold. But the mocking sunshine persisted all day.

 

 

George had stood and watched as his brother’s body was lowered into the ground, listening to the sobs of his siblings, the wails of his mother, but all he felt was numb. He moved through the ceremony mechanically. As he listened to the eulogy given by his father, the words added by friends and family, he stood by silently, unable to speak. He knew Fred deserved better, knew he should do something, say something, but he just couldn’t find the words. He stood beside his family as one by one, mourners passed through to offer their condolences, the empty words surrounding him like echoes from a far off distance. He tried to force himself to respond, but could manage nothing more than a grunt or a nod.

 

 

Eventually they’d all gone back to the Burrow, the Weasley family along with their close friends. They ate and drank and talked about Fred, sharing memories and laughing through their tears, but George couldn’t bring himself to join in. He knew Fred would have wanted him to. Fred would have wanted this to be a celebration, a lively party full of the laughter and fun that he had been so full of throughout his life. But George couldn’t find that part of himself anymore. He felt as if all his laughter had died with Fred.

 

 

As the night wore on, the guests had begun to disperse. Somehow, he had felt even worse as the numbers dwindled down until he was surrounded mostly by family. Unable to stand the pitying looks in their eyes as they all tiptoed around him as though he were made of glass, he decided he needed to get out of there. Resisting all protests and pleas from his mother to stay, George had returned to his own flat above the joke shop in Diagon Alley. His own flat. The words sent a chill through his bones. It was no longer _theirs_.

 

 

Shaking himself out of his reverie, George dragged himself to his feet. Shuffling over to his dresser, he pulled out a few items of clothing and threw them on. Shoving his feet into a pair of beat up old shoes, he left the room and ambled down the hallway into the bathroom. As he brushed his teeth, he stared at his reflection in the mirror with a pained expression. Every morning he felt haunted by that image mirrored back at him. He didn’t think he would ever be able to look at himself again without thinking of Fred. Bending over the sink, he rinsed out his mouth and straightened back up, staring at his reflection once more. After a moment, he pulled his wand out of his back pocket and aimed it at the face looking back at him. “ _Evanesco,”_ he muttered, vanishing the mirror. He sighed, wishing he could have vanished himself along with it.

 

 

George moved into the hallway and trudged down the staircase. Reaching the bottom, he pulled open the door in front of him leading into his joke shop. _His_ joke shop, he thought again with a pang. How strange it was to be only one instead of two. He shook his head and stepped forward, moving into the dimly lit shop for the first time in weeks. He paused and let his eyes adjust to the gloom, the only light in the room peeping in from the gaps between the curtains. He thought of illuminating the lamps, but decided against it. He didn’t really want that much light.

 

 

Moving through the deserted shop, past quiet shelves full of loud products, George looked around himself at the accumulation of his and Fred’s innovation. Picking up an item resembling a shoe, he read, “ _Instantly silences footsteps. Perfect for performing pranks, hijinks, and general mischief. Always remain undetected with a pair of Sneaking Sneakers! (Additional shoe sold separately.)”_ He remembered this one, it had been his idea. He recalled the intensive development process, the long days of trial and error, as he and Fred spent weeks working out the kinks. It was hard work, but it had never felt like work, not with Fred by his side. They’d had so much fun together, enthusiastically testing out new ideas or building upon old ones, while even their failures were a boundless source of amusement to them. George tossed the Sneaking Sneaker aside despondently and moved on. He couldn’t imagine ever inventing anything again. He supposed his days as an entrepreneur were over now. He mulled this over, trying to decide how he felt about that. Shrugging, unable to muster up enough energy to care, he found it didn’t much trouble him.

 

 

Suddenly he heard a distinctive hoot, followed by a tapping and fluttering at the shop window. Sighing, he sauntered over towards the front of the shop, squinting in the sudden glaring sunshine that met his eyes as he pulled back the curtains enveloping the casement. Lifting the catch that secured the windowpane, he pushed open the glass, letting a tiny grey owl swoop in.

 

 

George recognized Pigwidgeon, his brother, Ron’s, owl as it flapped past him, flitting erratically about the room before finally coming to rest on his shoulder. Holding out its leg, it presented a small scroll tied with a red string which George began to unknot. 

 

 

“Get off it, Pig,” George muttered to the owl as it nipped at his ear, “That’s the last one I’ve got left.” Fishing around in his pockets for some owl treats Pig could snack on instead, he found a few dusty morsels, feeding them to the owl as he broke open the scroll. Unrolling the parchment, he recognized the handwriting as belonging to his sister, Ginny.

 

 

_Dear George,_

_I had to borrow Pig from Ron to send this. I hope he gets it to you on time. I told him to take it straight there, but you know how he gets distracted sometimes. I know you haven’t been answering any of our letters, but I’m going to keep writing to you anyway. Mum wants you to come around this Sunday for dinner. I wish you would. She’s driving me mad. She’s got this endless list of household “projects” that need to be done, and keeps us all busy from morning till night. She’s worse than she was before Bill’s wedding. You’d think after we finally defeated You-Know-Who, we could all relax a bit, but she won’t stay still. She’s also made it her mission to try to keep me and Harry separated. She thinks if she keeps us busy enough, we won’t have a chance to get up to anything. It’s completely unfair too, because she leaves Ron and Hermione alone. You’d need a crowbar to pry those two apart. They are practically joined at the hip, and frankly, it’s sickening. At least Harry and I can keep our hands to ourselves in public. Of course, with Mum around we have to. But I didn’t grow up with you and Fred without learning a few tricks about how to get around Mum._

_Anyway, we miss you George. Come visit us soon._

_Love,_

_Ginny_

George looked over Ginny’s letter before rolling it back up and sliding it into his pocket. He let Pig back out through the window without sending a reply. A vague feeling of guilt prodded at him. He’d been avoiding his family ever since the funeral. He knew it wasn’t fair to them, but he just hadn’t felt like facing them all. Not without…George felt the pressure behind his eyes increase as he thought of who would be missing.

 

 

Abruptly deciding he needed to get out of the shop, George slammed the window closed, quickly latching it before making his way over to the front door. Pushing through, he paused only to lock it behind him before proceeding hastily down the cobblestone street. His only thought was to get away.

* * *

 


	2. An old friend

* * *

Leaving the joke shop, George strode quickly down Diagon Alley, passing the many shopfronts and stalls without giving them a second glance. Having no real destination in mind, he thought only to put some distance between himself and the place he had just left. What he was actually trying to do was put some distance between himself and the great monster that dwelt in his chest, lurking just below the surface, waiting to pull him under. He walked swiftly, keeping up this hurried pace for several minutes, only slowing as the feeling began to subside.

 

Moving at a more leisurely pace, George strolled around for a little while, idly looking into shop windows until, stomach grumbling, he realized he hadn’t eaten anything all day. Finding himself in view of the Leaky Cauldron, he decided to stop in for lunch and started to head that way. Stepping in past the courtyard and through the creaking wooden doors, George blinked around as he entered the dimly lit pub.

 

Taking a seat at a table in the corner, George was soon approached by the innkeeper, Tom. Hardly glancing at the menu, he gave his order without giving much thought to what he wanted to eat. All food tasted much the same to him these days. While waiting for his meal the arrive, he stared down at the worn tabletop in front of him, tracing patterns in the wood.

 

Lost in his thoughts, he didn’t hear anyone approach until a tentative voice broke through his reverie. “George?” He looked up to see Angelina Johnson, his former teammate and fellow Gryffindor, standing before him.

 

“Oh…uh…hi Angie,” he said once he got over the momentary surprise at seeing her there. He felt a mild apprehension as he sat waiting for the inevitable _‘How are you?’_ accompanied by the well-meaning but unwelcome sympathetic stare he always got when running into any of his old classmates.

 

But Angelina just looked at him openly before asking, “Mind if I join you?”

 

“Er…yeah…of course,” he said, sliding over on the bench to make room for her.

 

Tom appeared again, looking to Angelina. “What’ll you have?” he asked.

 

“Just a butterbeer,” she responded. As he walked away, she glanced over at George and added by way of explanation, “I’m not very hungry.”

 

“So…” George said, making a valiant effort at conversation, “What brings you to Diagon Alley?”

 

“Just running a few errands. Been doing a bit of shopping, and I’ve got some letters to post, but I thought I’d stop in for a drink first,” she told him.

 

Just then Tom returned with George’s food and two bottles of butterbeer. As Angelina reached into her pocket, George handed Tom a few coins, waving Angelina aside. “I’ve got it,” he said casually.

 

“Thanks,” said Angelina with a smile.

 

George began mechanically to eat his food while Angelina sipped her butterbeer. After a minute, she said to him, “I passed by the joke shop earlier. It didn’t seem to be open.”

 

George looked over at her, hearing the unspoken question. “Yeah…” he said slowly, “I think we might be closing up shop.” Realizing he’d said _‘we’_ , he opened his mouth to correct himself, but quickly closed it again, looking down at his plate. He picked at his food as he awaited her reaction. Angelina looked at him for a long moment. George took a swig of his butterbeer, avoiding her gaze.  He didn’t really want to deal with any protests or be forced to explain or defend his decision.

 

When she did finally speak, it was only to say, “That’s too bad. I was hoping to stock up on some WonderWitch love potions.”

 

Surprising a laugh out of him, George began to cough, choking on his butterbeer. Angelina kept a straight face as she patted him on the back, a slight upturn at the corner of her mouth being her only giveaway.

 

“You don’t strike me as the type,” said George when he was finally able to breathe again.

 

“You’d be surprised,” she said, waggling her eyebrows with a grin. 

 

George grinned back at her, his face feeling a bit strange as it stretched into the now unaccustomed expression. He wondered vaguely how long it had been since he’d last even smiled. Sobering a bit, he remembered exactly when it must have been. Grin fading, he went back to his plate, absently pushing food around with his fork. 

 

Angelina continued to look at him warmly, a small smile tugging at the corner of her mouth as she went back to nursing her drink. They sat in silence for a few minutes. Suddenly Angelina reached over and grabbed the fork from his hand.

 

“Oi!” said George as she took a bite of his lunch. Smiling unrepentantly, she reached over to take another.

 

 “I thought you said you weren’t hungry,” George reminded her pointedly.

 

“You weren’t going to eat it,” she countered.

 

Throwing his hands up in mock defeat, he pushed the plate towards her. “It’s all yours,” he said generously.

 

She smirked at him as she replied, “Knew you’d see it my way.”

 

George couldn’t help the smile that pulled at his mouth as she finished off his meal for him. Twice in one day, he thought to himself, I must be setting a record. Throwing back the last of her butterbeer, Angelina banged the empty bottle back down on the table. “Ready to get out of here?” she asked him.

 

George raised an eyebrow, but responded, “After you.” Following her as she slid off the bench, they left the pub and strolled out onto the street.

 

* * *

 


	3. Broken

* * *

Passing through the courtyard of the Leaky Cauldron and into Diagon Alley, George paused and turned to Angelina. “Where to?” he asked.

 

Angelina glanced at George and asked “Fancy a walk? I’ve still got these letters to send off.”

 

“Alright then,” George responded easily and fell into step beside her.

 

Heading toward the post office, they walked in silence for a while, George listening to the combined sounds of Angelina’s boot heels as they rang out against the cobblestones and his own worn out trainers as they thudded steadily along. After some time, he noticed their strides had synced up, their footsteps creating a soothing rhythm.

 

All at once, George realized why this sensation felt so familiar. Until recently, he had always had someone by his side mirroring his footsteps. Not just someone, but Fred. Stumbling slightly, George missed his next step and immediately fell out of sync with Angelina.

 

She looked over at him. “Alright?” she asked.

 

“Yeah…fine,” he responded, and falling a little behind, he deliberately remained out of step with her the rest of the way, feeling somewhat relieved at the discordance.

 

Approaching the post office, George stepped forward to pull open the door, pausing to let Angelina pass through before following her inside. He looked around, taking in his surroundings. The place was packed with owls of every sort. While Angelina approached the counter, George wandered through the shop, taking in the variety of shapes, sizes, and colors of the many post owls.

 

Coming across a very small, dingy-looking copse owl, George was reminded of the letter he’d had that morning from Ginny. That familiar feeling of guilt crept up on him as he imagined the disappointment on Ginny’s face when she saw Pig return empty-handed. The words of her letter ran through his head. _We miss you. Come visit._ The truth was, he missed them too. If anyone would be able to understand his grief, it would be his family. But that’s exactly what he was afraid of. He didn’t want to grieve. He didn’t want to face it. So, he kept himself numb, pushing away that awful truth, keeping it at arm’s length for fear that it would get too close and crush him under its weight.

 

He shook his head, banishing these thoughts, and turning on his heel, went to find Angelina again. As he approached the counter, Angelina turned and looked up at him, her smiling face sobering into a more thoughtful look as she took in his expression. Her hand moved, halfway crossing the space between them, before dropping back to her side.

 

George cleared his throat. “All done?” he asked her.

 

Angelina nodded, looking at him for a long moment before responding, “Yeah.”

 

George found he couldn’t quite meet her eyes. “Well then,” he said with false brightness, gesturing towards the door, “shall we?”

 

Following her out, George moved away from the door and began to proceed down the walkway, when he found his progress hindered as Angelina grasped his arm, pulling him into an alley between the post office and the shop beside it.

 

Staring at her anxious face, George was dumbfounded. “What’s the matter?” he asked her, glancing behind them in confusion, wondering what she was hiding from.

 

Angelina stared at him intently for a moment, opening her mouth to speak, then closing it again as though she were afraid of her own words. Finally, she opened her mouth once more and said, “I just…wanted to say…I mean, I know you may not want to talk about it, but…” she paused, trying to gather her thoughts.

 

Halfway through this speech, George’s face began to grow white, and a cold pit of dread fell into the center of his chest like a stone into water, reverberating outward like ripples through his body.

 

Taking a breath, Angelina said, “I just want you to know that I’m so…I’m so sorry about Fred.” George felt a stabbing pain go through his chest at the sound of Fred’s name. She continued, “I know those words are meaningless, but…he was such an amazing person, and I know it’s nothing to your loss, but I really c-cared about him…and I care about you, and…I’m so sorry that he’s…gone…” She finally trailed off, no longer able to make her thoughts coherent.

 

Looking at him intensely, her eyes brimming with raw emotion and her mouth pressed into a slim line as she finished speaking, Angelina waited for his reaction. George felt a ringing in his ears as though a bomb had exploded nearby. He could feel his heartbeat in his fingertips. _That’s not normal,_ he thought distantly, bringing his hands up and gazing at his palms absently. Suddenly, he found his view obscured as she slid her hands into his, covering his palms and squeezing gently. Wrenching his eyes away from their now joined hands, he brought them painfully up to meet her gaze. Her eyes held a steady look, bravely meeting the anguish she saw swimming in his own. She seemed to be waiting for something.

 

George vaguely supposed that he should probably say something, but he found his mind empty of thoughts. He opened his mouth as though the words might just fall out of their own accord. What did come out surprised him, his heart missing a beat when the sound reached his ears. “Fred…” he croaked, his voice breaking on the name. And as if that one word were the catalyst, he felt the dam inside of him suddenly break, the waters rushing in on him, drowning him in his own grief.

 

He found himself suddenly on his knees, doubled over against the pain, Angelina’s arms wrapped around him as he sobbed uncontrollably. He didn’t notice how he had gotten there, and he didn’t notice anything else for a long time either. Angelina held him silently as he collapsed himself into his heartache, wave after wave of sorrow and anguish overtaking him. Neither of them spoke except for the single word that George found himself repeating unconsciously, “Fred…”

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 


	4. One step

* * *

It was some time before George came back to himself. He slowly became aware of his surroundings as his sobs quieted and the river of tears ran dry. He felt his knees pressing into the cold, hard stone as he sat bent over the ground, hands resting on his thighs. Listening to the sounds of his own ragged breathing, he then noticed Angelina’s arms, one wrapped tightly around his middle, while the other cradled his head against her. He felt the rise and fall of her chest as she breathed in and out. She loosened her grip slightly as he quieted, leaning back to peer down at him. Straightening, he sat back on his heels, wiping his face with the back of his hand, his eyes still cast downward towards the ground.

 

He felt the coolness of Angelina’s palms soothing his feverish skin as she gently took his face in her hands, cupping his cheeks in her palms. As she rubbed her thumbs under his eyes, George looked up at her, watching as she dried his tears. He took in her expression of deep concern as her eyes focused on him, her own face wet with tears which she didn’t seem to have noticed. George reached up to return the favor, the backs of his fingers brushing against her skin as he gently dried her cheeks. She captured his hand then, grasping it in hers. She hesitated a moment, looking into his eyes, before pressing a kiss against his knuckles.

 

Though still filled with an aching sorrow, George somehow felt a little bit lighter. As the storm inside him had passed, he felt something shift within him. Though the weight of his burden remained, it now seemed a weight he could carry. His sight felt sharper, the air in his lungs crisp and clean, sounds were more distinct, and even his thoughts seemed a little bit clearer.

 

Looking at Angelina, George surprisingly felt no embarrassment over what had just happened, though he did find himself struggling for words, not knowing what to say. She saved him the trouble. “Well, I don’t know about you, but I wouldn’t exactly call this a cozy place to spend our afternoon,” she said as she stood up, then leaned down to offer him a hand. He took it, rising slowly to his feet, his knees creaking after resting so long against the cobblestones, legs tingling as the blood rushed back through his veins.

 

“Oh, I don’t know,” said George, casting a glance around the cramped and darkened alleyway, “I think it’s quite a charming little spot.” With an appraising look, he added, “A few throw pillows, a couple paintings on the wall, I think we could really do something with this place.”

 

Angelina rolled her eyes, but a smile was on her lips as she moved toward the street, calling back over her shoulder, “There’s no accounting for taste.”

 

George lingered a moment before following, rubbing his hands roughly over his swollen face as he took a deep breath. Sighing it out, he ran a hand through his hair before following Angelina into the street. She glanced over at him as he caught up, bumping him slightly with her shoulder. He gave her a half smile and they walked on companionably for a while.

 

As they approached the Leaky Cauldron once again, their footsteps slowed before finally stopping as Angelina turned towards him. “Well, I guess I’d better go. I’m heading back into London,” she told him.

 

“Alright,” replied George, “It was…good seeing you again, Angie.” He looked down at her as she gazed up at him, one hand on her hip as the other shielded her eyes from the glaring sun.

 

“You too,” Angelina replied sincerely, giving him a searching look before adding, “Let’s keep in touch, yeah?”

 

George nodded, feeling something stir inside him as she looked up at him earnestly. His eyes roamed her face, taking in her smooth skin as they followed the curve of her cheek, lingering on her full lips, before moving back up to meet her deep brown eyes framed by long lashes.  “Absolutely,” he said.

 

Angelina reached out, her hand almost touching his face, but dropping instead to his shoulder. “Take care of yourself, okay?”

 

George felt her hand slide down the length of his arm before reaching his own hand and squeezing gently. His fingers returned the gentle pressure before letting go. “I will,” he promised her.

 

Angelina gave him one last smile before turning to leave. George watched her go with a strange mixture of emotion. Then, stuffing his hands in his pockets, he turned away from the Leaky Cauldron and made his way back toward his flat. As he shuffled down the cobblestone street, he looked in shop windows and watched people walking by, catching bits and pieces of conversation as they flowed past him. He felt somehow more aware of his surroundings than he had in a long time.

 

As George passed by the post office once more, he slowed his steps, lingering on the sidewalk. His hand resting against the door, he paused momentarily before pushing through and walking inside. Stepping up to the counter, he contemplated a stack of parchment and assortment of quills that were resting there, before selecting one of each and scribbling a short note.

 

_Dear Ginny,_

_I’ll see you on Sunday._

_Love,_

_George_

Rolling up his letter, George selected an owl at random and handed over a few coins to the clerk behind the counter, watching as she attached the scroll to the owl before setting it free. As the owl took off, its wide wings creating a breeze as it flapped past, George felt something ease inside of him, a tightness in his chest he hadn’t noticed was there until it had suddenly dissipated.

 

George then left the shop, stuffing his hands back into his pockets as he began the short walk home. As he approached the building, he decided to enter through the side door, feeling that he wasn’t quite up to entering the shop again today. He muttered the password he and Fred had set together long ago to ensure that only the two of them could enter. Listening as the lock clicked open, he turned the knob and pushed open the door, stepping into the front hallway before proceeding up the stairs. As he climbed up the two stories to his bedroom, he could feel his feet growing heavier with every step. Exhaustion began to creep over him, the events of the day leaving him emotionally drained.

 

Entering the room, he paused only to kick off his shoes before collapsing face down onto his bed. His throat was dry and his tongue felt thick and heavy in his mouth. He thought vaguely of dragging himself up to get a glass of water, but instead let the thought drift out of his mind again as he relaxed his body, burrowing further into the mattress. He was too tired to bother. His head felt fuzzy now, as though it had been stuffed with cotton. Turning his face to the side, he opened one bleary eye and looked over to the bed adjacent to his. A wave of sorrow rolled through him then, a distant, echoing feeling, and he closed his eyes again. Rolling over, he wrapped himself in his blankets and curled onto his side. Sighing, he let the exhaustion overtake him, sinking down into a blissful unconsciousness as sleep claimed him at last.

* * *

 


	5. Reconnecting

* * *

The day dawned clear and bright. As the sun creeped over the horizon, its light stole in through the open windows of George’s bedroom. He always left them open now, unable to sleep without the air and the noise of the outside world filtering in. The silence of the room with the windows shut made him feel claustrophobic. George shifted in his sleep. Sunlight slowly stretched its way across the floor toward his bed before finally spilling over his pillows and kissing his eyelids, causing them to flicker, then open.

 

Blinking, halfway between sleep and waking, he clung to his now fading dream, trying to recall the details.

_He was at Hogwarts, at the top of the Astronomy tower. Fred stood on the low wall, laughing. George looked over the edge, but instead of the Hogwarts grounds, he saw a vast ocean below them. There was smoke rising from the tower behind them, flames licking up the walls._

_He looked up at Fred standing above him and said, “We need a bucket.”_

_Somehow, he thought if he could scoop the water from the ocean, he could use it to put out the fire._

_Fred grinned at him, the firelight dancing in his eyes. “Do you dare me to jump?” he asked._

_“No,” George told him, but before the word had even left his mouth, he saw his brother fling himself backwards, laughter on his face as he crashed into the churning waves below._

_“Fred!” George called, climbing up on the wall, wanting to throw himself after his twin, but suddenly his body was paralyzed, unable to move as he watched Fred’s body sink below the waves._

 

George rubbed his hands over his face, letting the dream drift away from him as he brought his mind back to the room where he lay. Pushing the image of Fred’s laughing face from his mind, he watched the breeze fluttering the open curtains, listening to the sounds it carried in from the street below. He heard chattering voices, a sudden shout of laughter, a bell jingling as a door was opened, then the slam of it shutting again. He rolled himself over, stretching and staring up at the ceiling. As his mind wandered, he suddenly realized what day it was. His stomach twisted and he sat up, rubbing his face. Sunday.

 

Sighing, he shoved the covers off him and threw his legs over the side of the mattress. Leaning forward, he rested his arms against his knees and stared down at the faded carpet. Why did he make that promise to Ginny? The last thing he wanted to do today was to visit the Burrow. Maybe he could back out, make up some excuse. He turned the idea over in his mind, considering it, but knowing full well he wouldn’t be able to do that to his family. Shaking his head, George ran a hand through his hair and stood up, stretching. He’d just have to go through with it.

 

Throwing on some clothes, George left the room and headed down the hallway to the kitchen. He needed coffee. After setting the pot to brew, he walked over and pulled open the refrigerator door, staring into it at the nearly barren shelves as his mind began to wander. Eggs, bread, milk. He thought about making breakfast, but knew he wouldn’t. He didn’t really care for breakfast much. Or lunch. Or dinner. He sighed and slammed the refrigerator door shut, leaning back against it as he inhaled the aroma of freshly brewed coffee. He shuffled over to the cupboard, opening it and reaching up to take down a blue mug painted with the letter ‘G’ off the shelf. As he started to close the door, his eyes were caught by a chipped mug marked with an ‘F’. He blinked at it for a moment, then turned it around so the letter was hidden from view before shutting the cabinet again. Turning away, he grabbed the coffee pot and poured himself a cup before leaving the kitchen. 

 

George wandered through the empty house, mug in hand, before plopping down onto the overstuffed sofa in the living room. Leaning back, he kicked his feet up onto the coffee table, watching the steam rise from his cup as he sipped from it slowly. He listened to the slow tick of the clock, its sound amplified in the quiet room. Staring at the ceiling, he felt the silence pressing in on him, humming loudly in his ears. George suddenly sat up, dropping his feet back onto the ground as he thumped his mug onto the table. He pulled himself to his feet and strode towards the window, throwing it open and leaning out, arms resting on the windowsill. Gasping in air as though he had been underwater, he closed his eyes and let the clattering noise rising from the busy street below roll over him.

 

Opening his eyes, George watched for a while as people walked past, going about their business. He listened to their footsteps ringing out against the cobblestones, their voices rising and falling in conversation. He heard a baby crying in the distance, an owl hooting as it swooped past his window.

 

Eventually, he pulled himself away and returned to his seat on the couch, slumping into the cushions. He picked up his mug from the table, staring into its depths as he swirled the remainder of his coffee around inside it. Lifting it to his lips, he drained it quickly, wincing a little as he swallowed the now cold beverage.

 

Deciding there was no point putting it off any longer, George dropped the mug back onto the table with a clunk, got to his feet and walked over to the fireplace. He grabbed a handful of powder from a bowl sitting on the mantelpiece and threw it onto the logs, watching them burst into emerald green flames. He then took a deep breath, steeling himself for the ordeal he was about to face, before stepping into the flames and shouting, “The Burrow!”

 

George stepped out of the fireplace and into the living room of his family’s home. Looking around, he saw four sets of eyes trained on him. He barely had time to register the faces of Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Ginny before seeing a flash of red streak across the room accompanied by a squeal as his sister launched herself at him. He patted her back as she wrapped her arms around his middle, squeezing him tightly before stepping back to look up at him.

 

“You made it,” Ginny said, beaming.

 

He considered making some quip about his busy schedule, but the words just rattled vaguely through his brain, never making it to his tongue.

 

“Yeah,” was all he said in the end, managing a half smile.

 

George looked over to where the others sat watching him. He noticed a game of wizard’s chess set up on the coffee table, with Harry seated on the couch in front of it and Ron slouched on the floor across from him. Hermione was curled up in an armchair, a book open in her lap. He walked over to the group as Ginny settled back onto the couch next to Harry.

 

Ron stood up as he approached, looking awkward as he said, “Hey, George.”

 

“Hi, Ron,” said George, feeling just as uncomfortable with the situation.

 

He nodded to Harry and Hermione as they greeted him, then took a seat on the couch next to Ginny.

 

Looking to the board set up on the coffee table, he said, “You all playing?”

 

“Yeah,” said Ron as he resumed his seat.

 

“Whose turn?” he asked, more to fill the silence than out of any real curiosity.

 

“Harry’s,” Ron responded.

 

Harry looked jolted at the sound of his name, as though he’d forgotten he was supposed to be making a move. He turned his attention back to the board and three pairs of eyes followed his gaze, Hermione having turned back to her book.

 

Silence reigned for a time, but George didn’t find it oppressive. In fact, he felt relieved at the lack of conversation, content to just sit and watch the game progress.

 

Eventually, the match ended with Ron the victor. He immediately began resetting the pieces as he asked, “Another go?”

 

Harry sat back, stretching. “I think I’ve taken enough of a beating for one day, thanks.”

 

Ron looked to George. “Want to play?”

 

George thought about it. He wasn’t sure he felt up to playing anything, but then again, it would certainly be better than sitting around talking. At least if they continued playing, he didn’t have to speak.

 

“Alright,” he said.

 

“Great!” Ron said enthusiastically as he finished setting up the board.

 

They were about to begin when a whirlwind swept into the room. At least that’s what it felt like to George as his mother burst in, shouting “Here you all are! Sitting around playing games when there’s so much work to be done. The garden hasn’t been de-gnomed in ages! Didn’t I ask you to—“ she stopped suddenly as her eyes landed on George, looking stricken.

 

George rubbed his neck uncertainly as he saw her eyes begin to water. “Hi, mum,” he mumbled.

 

“Oh, Georgie!” Mrs. Weasley cried, rushing over to him and sweeping him up in a hug.

 

George felt uneasy as his mother wrapped her arms around him. He blinked rapidly as he felt a prickle behind his eyes, chest aching as she held him tightly.

 

“Alright, alright, mum,” he said as he pushed her away, “Allow me to breathe, will you?”

 

His mother just smiled at him, dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief.

 

“Sorry, Mrs. Weasley,” said Harry. “We’ll go take care of those gnomes,” he offered as Ron and Ginny shot him mutinous glares.

 

“What? Oh, no dear, you all just stay here and finish your game,” said Mrs. Weasley, oblivious to the surprised stares of her youngest children at her sudden change of heart. 

 

Ron grinned and turned his attention to the board as Harry and Ginny exchanged a look, eyebrows raised.

 

“Is anybody hungry?” Mrs. Weasley asked.

 

“I am,” Ron said loudly. Ginny rolled her eyes and Hermione suppressed a smile.

 

Mrs. Weasley didn’t seem to have heard him, however. She turned to George instead, saying, “You look so thin, dear. Have you been eating?”

 

George didn’t feel hungry and he certainly didn’t want to discuss his eating habits with his mother. He wished she would stop fussing at him. He wanted to go back to the quiet game, with all the eyes in the room focused on the chess board instead of being turned to his face, as they were now.

 

Mrs. Weasley gazed at him imploringly. “Why don’t I just pop into the kitchen and fix you all up some lunch?” she said.

 

“Sure, fine,” George mumbled. She beamed at him, smoothing her hand over his hair before bustling off into the kitchen to prepare the food. He felt a little guilty at the relief that came over him as he watched her walk away.

 

After she left, the others sat looking at him uncomfortably; all save for Ron, who was busy giving an order to one of his pawns.

 

“Your move,” he said to George, oblivious to the tension in the room.

 

For once, George was grateful for his younger brother’s lack of awareness. He turned his attention back to the game, glad for the distraction. Silence settled over the room once more, interrupted only by the occasional instructions given to their chess pieces as they moved them across the board.

 

Eventually Mrs. Weasley returned bearing trays of food. She set them down as eager hands began to snatch at the items arranged there. As his mother encouraged him to eat, he grabbed a sandwich at random, taking an obliging bite to satisfy her. As Mrs. Weasley left the room again, he dropped it back onto the tray again, abandoning the half-eaten snack.

 

“Rook to D-4,” Ron mumbled through a mouthful of food, sending crumbs flying across the board.

 

“Oh, Ronald, don’t speak with your mouth full,” said Hermione from behind her book.

 

Ron swallowed, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand before replying, “I wasn’t.”

 

George smirked at his younger brother as he made his next move. Suddenly he noticed something. Eyeing his brother suspiciously, he watched as Ron moved another piece, leaving himself open to a checkmate.

 

“Are you letting me win?” George asked suddenly, seeing through Ron’s rather obvious ploy. He wasn’t terrible at chess, but he had no illusions about his abilities either. He knew he wouldn’t be able to beat his brother that easily.

 

Ron’s ears immediately turned a bright red at the accusation. His eyes slid past George, avoiding his gaze as he stuttered, “N-no – er, I just – erm – of c-course not.”

 

George rolled his eyes at his brother’s lame attempt at a denial. “Well, I’m convinced,” he said, standing up.

 

“No, wait—“ Ron said quickly, “look, you’re right. I’m sorry, I just –“ he met George’s eyes with a pleading look. “Let’s play again, okay?”

 

A memory suddenly flashed in George’s mind.

 

_He was six years old, running through the garden outside the Burrow, Fred at his side. ‘Race you to the pond!’ Fred shouted to him._

_‘Wait!’ he heard a whining voice behind him and looked over his shoulder to see a four-year-old Ron chasing after them, his worn teddy dragging along on the ground behind him as he held it by one leg. ‘Wait for me! I want to come too!’ he cried._

_Fred laughed and called back, ‘You can only come if you can keep up.’ Then, grinning over at George, he sprinted through the gate, George on his heels, and slammed it shut behind them._

_Hopping, Ron grasped for the latch but was too small to reach it. ‘That’s not fair!’ he huffed._

_George just laughed as he and Fred took off running._

He didn’t know why the memory came to him then, but he sat back down and began to reset the board.

 

“If I wanted to cheat, I could manage it perfectly well without your help,” George told him.

 

“I know,” Ron grinned, helping him put the pieces back into place as they started a new game.

 

* * *

 


End file.
